


The Collection

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Lestrade, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, NC17, Omega Sherlock, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're an Alpha, John, aren't you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [billiethepoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/gifts).



> This one's for billiethepoet! Happy Winter Holmestice!
> 
> This version has been very slightly edited. (nothing _you_ would notice, dear reader, just things that are driving _me_ nuts)
> 
> This is _not_ part of the Night Moves 'verse.
> 
> ETA: Oh look, there's a sequel! [Like Red Wine and Honey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4178742)

The club was the kind of trendy dark place John Watson hated. The music was too loud, the walls were black, the crowd was fashionably bored and loved up at the same time, the drinks overpriced. Of course Moriarty would use it for his headquarters. 

He was tired of it. He was, in fact, just plain tired. Besides, one of the new bouncers by the bar was giving him the eye, and he didn't fancy having to explain himself to someone inconsequential. And in his current state of mind, he was likely to be a little too enthusiastic about telling the bouncer he didn't have a bloody hand stamp. The bar was packed, which was just as well. Drinking was likely to get him into trouble at this stage and his knuckles still hurt from the last fight he had been in. Why did people have to be so damned stupid? He refused to believe what Harry kept telling him - it was all his fault.

With all of this in mind, John decided not to wait for Lestrade, instead heading directly towards the stairs. The music changed to something ponderous, the vocals unintelligible, the guitar a wailing, screaming assault on his ears. Wincing and feeling his mood change for the worse, John took the steps two at a time. The bouncer on the mezzanine landing nodded once at him before putting his code into the keypad, sliding a key card through its slot when the LED lock stubbornly remained red. John politely looked away, watched people at the railing watch the dancers below. They were insufferable, with their fancy clothes and party drugs. 

The door to the right of the bouncer opened, and John went through. Thankfully the music was no longer an issue once the door closed behind him. The beat and the bass still thumped underneath his feet, but it was no longer the thing stepping on his last nerve. No, that was an ordeal coming with every step forward he made. What the people on the mezzanine didn't know was that they were visible to anyone in the hallway, because the 'wall' was actually made of toughened, polarized glass. He knew it was toughened glass, because his attempt at throwing Moran through it had been a failure. More was the pity.

At the end of the hall was another door, a room with a purple sofa and two orange chairs (no coffee table), and then yet another door into Moriarty's lair proper. John didn't bother knocking, and when he opened the door, it became clear that no one would have answered anyway. The office was empty, even the wall of security screens had been turned off. Which meant only one thing; everyone was upstairs.

"Christ," said John. He put his hands on his hips and blew out a noisy breath. This was going to require fortitude, and he was pretty sure he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it out alive. Really all depended on Moriarty. Then again, John had survived, hell, he'd thrived, thus far. No reason to think he wouldn't do so again. Except for the fact that Moriarty was bat-shit insane.

To the left of Moriarty's massive executive desk was a door. It was wider than normal, with a lockable handle. Behind the door and up the two flights of stairs was Moriarty's playroom. That's what he called it, his playroom. John had yet to figure out how the playroom was able to have a conversation-slash-fight pit in the middle. He supposed that the rest of the room had been built up around it, like the risers in a gymnasium. Still, he didn't like going up there. No, scratch that, he _detested_ going up there.

He was going to have to do it anyway. _Damn_ Moriarty! And damn Clara's debts! But he couldn't blame it all on her, could he? It was his own foolhardiness that had gotten him in Moriarty's sight lines in the first place. He still suspected he had been set up, though by whom, and for what purpose, he wasn't sure. Harry was easy enough to figure out, their entire relationship was built upon manipulation and lies. The only reason he had agreed to work off Clara's debt was because Harry couldn't; she needed one more operation, then months of physical therapy before she could get back on her feet. Only guilt and an actual liking for Clara had made him agree to Harry's proposal. This was a one off, though, and Harry knew it.

Moriarty had known who John was long before he had ever stepped foot in this office. The only thing John could think of that would have brought one another into their respective spheres of influence was the gambling, and he had already quit. He didn't want to, but needs must. He was never going to allow himself to get into this situation again. Never.

So. 

The door to upstairs was unlocked. Moriarty was expecting him, this was just added angst for Moriarty's amusement, because he knew how much John hated his playroom. Steeling himself for whatever he might see, John walked up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs was a small landing which led into the playroom. From there, another short staircase into the pit, which took up half the space in the room. To either side of the pit were couches where the lucky, foolhardy few could drink their drinks and enjoy the show, or at least pretend to. John couldn't imagine anyone wanting to be in this room if they really, really, _really_ didn't enjoy it. Far above the pit was a skylight, and to the left and right were doors and curtains which presumably led to private rooms. The walls were an even, industrial gray, the furniture contemporary; uncomfortable looking settees and chairs in chrome and jewel tones practically floated above the floor, which in turn was coated with some kind of black industrial but spongy coating, like something a person who stood all day would want to have underfoot. And then there was the smell, a wash of Alpha and Omega hormones, cannabis, spilled alcohol, an overlay of perfume and cologne, coppery blood and the bleach of spunk.

Moriarty held court on the far side of the pit, opposite John. He wasn't wearing a crown, however he did hold a baton of some sort in one hand, and when he spied John he crowed with triumphant laughter. "Oh, my friends, my dear friends, look who's here! None other than our _dear_ doctor. Has he come to fix somebody? No? Are we sure? Janice, what about you? That nasty infection's cleared up, good. Tom? Eric? Sebastian, what about you, hmm?"

Because John's luck wasn't so good as to have Sebastian _fucking_ Moran out of the building. He would prefer Moran to be six feet under. Of course, that was part of Moriarty's game, plucking John's strings. He enjoyed it even more, since it was so obvious how John felt. Obvious, because John has never bothered to hide his disdain and dislike. If anyone asked, John would say nothing apart from that he had heard rumours about Moran in Afghanistan. What he told only to a very rare few was what he had _seen_. Moran was far more evil than Moriarty could ever hope to be. The funny thing was, John was pretty sure Moriarty knew it, too. Used it to his advantage, no doubt.

"Aren't you even going to say hello?" Moriarty waved his baton at the assortment of humanity in the room. Most were seated, a few stood in little groups around the edges of the room. "Say hello to all these lovely people, John.

John nodded once. "Hello."

Moriarty pouted, resting his head on his fist. "John. You'll have to do better than that, but next time, darling, next time," He stood and clapped his hands. "Out! Everyone out! Sebastian, you stay."

Dutifully standing in place while everyone filed past, giving him amused and curious little glances, John tried to keep calm. Even so, he scanned the room, looking for places where he could find weapons, if necessary. Unfortunately there was little to hand, he would have to improvise and stay on his toes if things went south. The real question was, why did Moriarty feel it necessary to have everyone leave? The man loved an audience.

"John, now that your friend Lestrade has seen fit to arrive with the collection," said Moriarty, trotting up the steps and slinging his around around John's shoulder, turning him to face one of the side doors. "And you've been so very _very_ good to me, I thought I would gift you a present. I think you'll find it very exciting, I know I do! Sebastian, if you'd do the honors."

Moran gave John a level, dead-eyed stare, then sauntered to the door. As soon as he opened it, the room was flooded with the cloyingly musky scent of an overripe Omega. John flinched, wrinkling his nose at the heady sweetness of the smell. Looking back towards the door, he saw a tall figure, flanked and firmly held by two musclebound men in trousers and short-sleeved shirts. The man's eyes were of no color John could discern, and they blazed at Moriarty. The man was shirtless, his trousers storm gray, his feet bare and his dark hair in wild disarray.

"I _know_ , doesn't he smell delicious?" whispered Moriarty, his humid breath washing John's ear and sending a shiver of anxiety down his back. 

"We've been taking ever such good care of Sherlock since he first came to us. I don't think you've met him before - Sherlock!" he called. "Sherlock, this is John. Say hello to Sherlock."

"Hello," John managed to croak. The smell - it caught in the back of his throat with every inhalation. What was Moriarty up to?

Moriarty tightened his grip, manouevered John towards the man. "Sherlock works for me, or he did. But he was a very bad boy and needed to be punished. Poor baby. It's a _shame_ his heat came on so suddenly, and that there was no one to provide any relief to him. He doesn't even have any toys to play with, can you imagine that? Oh I'm sure you can, you're an Alpha, John, aren't you?"

Yes. Yes he was.

"We've been having lots of fun with Sherlock. We've discovered so many things about him that we never knew before. For example, he won't speak unless he wants to, no matter what you do to him. We've been using, well. I don't want to spoil the surprise."

Now that he was near, John could practically feel the fever heat coming off of Sherlock's milk pale skin. The expanse of it was breathtaking. John licked his lips, tried to take shallow breaths. But, god. Sherlock really was genuinely tall, it wasn't all in just his narrow frame, which up close turned out to be broader than John had originally thought. His nipples, standing proud, were a lovely shade of pinkish red. If he was John's, John would keep his chest clean shaven - not that he had a wealth of hair, only a few laggards on his sternum. A sparse trail of joy led into his trousers. Which reminded him - "How…?"

Shaking his head, Moriarty said, "Oh, don't be so obtuse. We plugged him up. Not that long ago, so you don't have to worry about him leaking all over your friend Lestrade's car. Nice touch, by the way, using an officer of the law." 

"He's a friend," answered John distractedly, staring up at the bone structure of Sherlock's face. God, what he wouldn't give to run his hands over the rest of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock's nostrils flared, and he swayed towards John a little. John was able to not sway back. Because, oh, _shit_. For the first time John became aware that what he really wanted to do was stuff his cock into Sherlock. Mouth, arse, hand, he didn't particularly care.

"Well, your _friend_ is waiting downstairs for you."

And those cheekbones, god. But - the flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the slight panting - "This man needs medical treatment."

"Good thing you're a doctor, then, isn't it!" said Moriarty cheerily. "Now, go be a good physician and fix up your patient. I'm done with him. He's totally ruined."

At this, John turned towards Moriarty in horror. " _My_ patient? What do you mean, 'fix my patient'?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John," said Moriarty with a moue of distaste. He stepped closer to Sherlock, put a finger in the waistband of his trousers and pulled, peering down. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Hmm. Interesting."

"No, no," John reached out to grab Moriarty, rocked back when Moran twitched forward, an ugly grin on his face. John gritted his teeth together. He was going to kill that fucker some day. "I don't want an Omega on my hands, especially one who obviously needs to go to hospital."

"Sucks to be you, then! Besides, _you_ don't get to go to hospi-"

"Why do you even care," interrupted John. "You've already said he's been ruined - "

"That's it! Yes, let's do that! Definitely _no_ hospital for you," punctuated with hard jabs of one finger to John's bad shoulder. 

"I'll tell you what, you can use one of my private rooms. There are all sorts of implements in there, you can use any on Sherlock as you like. Yes, that's my price, John. Do this one deed and your debt to me is paid in full," Moriarty took Sherlock's face in both hands and tried to pinch his thin cheeks. "Yes, this is it, Sherlock, can you believe it? You were such a disappointment in the end, refusing to tell me anything of use, and then refusing all my offers of employment. How you think you're going to continue paying for that flat of yours, I don't know. _Oh_ , maybe your brother can be put upon to do the deed? How lovely! How wonderful! Yes, you must ask him for me!"

John kept his face as still as possible during Moriarty's soliloquy. The man truly was mad. Clearly this was about Moriarty and Sherlock, John was merely incidental to the process.

"Good-bye John, good-bye Sherlock. Ta-ra!"

And with that, Moriarty left them, returning to the pit and randomly picking up a glass of smoky liquid on the way back to his chair. "Sebastian, make them go away."

"Don't you dare _fucking_ touch me," warned John before Moran could do more than raise his hand.

"Then follow me," growled Moran. He waved a hand at the men holding Sherlock, and they turned him around and back to…somewhere. Moran eyed John up and down, smirking. A second later he turned and followed Sherlock.

John looked back towards Moriarty, but the man was invested in whatever was in his glass. Each choice before him had an unknown yet known consequence. Trying to leave the regular way would earn him a shit-kicking from Moran, and whoever else would be invited into the fray. John wasn't stupid, he'd seen things like that happen before in this club. The first time it had been shocking, the second time had been startling, the third time he had realized it was all a show put on for himself. He had acted appropriately, calling Moriarty out on it, but that hadn't changed a damned thing. God, could he even do this? Was Sherlock willing? Or was he just acquiescing because he had no other choice? Speaking of which, did John have a choice? Well, yes, of course he did. 

Turmoil filling his mind, John decided to follow Sherlock and his keepers. He was torn between the excitement of having an Omega at his fingertips, and terror at the same. John was not into random sex with Omegas. Though he had plenty of experience with Betas, he had never fancied sleeping with an Omega just because hormones dictated it. He'd never been in a relationship with an Omega. Harry had accused him of being a romantic often enough when it came to that sort of thing, and in his deepest darkest moments he agreed with her. He _did_ believe in being a relationship, if an Omega needed relief. After all, heats were very personal, something beyond regular sex, right? So how was he going to approach this situation?

Moran brought them through a maze of corridors and doorways, some fifteen minutes in time. That was odd, by no means had John thought the building was remotely that big. Then again, Moriarty's club was in the middle of a city block four storeys tall. When Moran did finally lead them to a door which opened onto a surprisingly colorful room with a large bed and sofa, mini-fridge in one corner, John had absolutely no idea where they were. The men holding Sherlock released him by shoving him into the room and stepping back into the hallway.

"There you are, Watson," said Moran. He folded his arms and leaned against the opposite wall. "Fair warning, if he doesn't kill you in the next few days, I will."

"I wouldn't bet on winning," answered John in his quietest tone. "I'll take care of him, then I'll take care of you."

Moran chuckled. "Sure you will, mate."

Saying anything more would make him appear weaker, so John simply turned his back to Moran - even though it raised the hairs on the back of his neck - and entered the room, closing the door firmly behind himself. The room had definitely been decorated by a someone who had old Harlequin romances in mind. The walls and carpet were deep red, the headboard of the bed painted old gold, matching the chair and the vanity and the wardrobe. Ignoring Sherlock for a moment, John checked out the door to the left, which presumably led to the bathroom - and indeed, it did, complete with a corner bath for two. In cerise pink. He returned to the other room, walking by Sherlock to check out the wardrobe and, finally, to look inside the large trunk at the bottom of the bed.

Yeah, about what he had expected. Masses of toys, including whips and chains and things he couldn't actually figure out how to use. And then he couldn't put it off any longer. He turned around and faced Sherlock. "Hello. I'm John. So…here we are."

Sherlock made no reply. He merely stood there and stared at John, which made him very uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Right, let's start again. I'm John. I'm also a doctor, and if it's okay with you, I'd like to check to make sure you're okay."

As John slowly drew closer, not having heard a 'no' from Sherlock, he could see that the man was trembling. Hopefully not from fear. John had seen no bruising on Sherlock's skin, so the trauma appeared to mostly be mental. But who knew what he had been through with Moriarty. Slowly reaching out to touch Sherlock's wrist, making sure Sherlock could see everything he was doing, John kept up a running commentary. "Alright, I'm just going to take your pulse. I wish there was a way to check your blood pressure properly, but I'm going to assume it's elevated due to your situation," John checked his watch, counted the beat of Sherlock's radial pulse. Yes, probably higher than normal, but nothing outlandish. His own pulse, now, that was something else entirely. 

"You're a medical doctor, a surgeon."

John looked up in surprise, licked his lips. The voice was hoarse, but deep. The accent, posh, the diction, delightful. "Yes, yes I am. How are you feeling?"

"You're going to service me?"

The bottom dropped out of John's stomach. Jesus _Christ!_. His mouth dried instantly. "Well, that's Moriarty's plan, but we don't have to do anything. You can tie me up or something. There are handcuffs in the trunk. They're a bit fuzzy, but I think they'd do the trick."

Sherlock rounded on him, then, circled him like a wolf around penned sheep. John didn't dare move. The air was thick with scent, and though he had never been around an Omega in heat other than in passing, he did find himself wanting to touch, to feel, to lick. So he stood still, and hoped Sherlock would make the first move. And not towards the handcuffs.

"You don't like Moriarty, working for him under duress - ah. You made a bargain with him? No, you bargained with him to pay back a debt, and no more. You know he won't accept that, though, and have made contingency plans. Clever, oh that's very clever. Let me see, you have friends in the Army…you were in the Army, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Surprised by the information, John could only stutter a reply back. "Sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq, which is it?"

"Afghanistan - did Moran tell you?"

Sherlock's face assumed a pinched aspect. He stopped his circle, standing in front of John as if John didn't want to tear his clothes off there and then. "Moran's told me nothing, I've deduced what you do."

"Okay," answered John. "Tell me more."

"Am I right?"

"You are."

"You don't like Moran - "

"Does anyone?"

Sherlock acknowledged the comment with a slight twitch of his lips. John was glad to see it. He'd always heard Omegas lost their minds when it came to their heats, and he had fully expected Sherlock to be so too, and yet, here he was, cognizant and talking. Except his hands were balled into fists by this thighs.

Because of course. This was all deflection to the reason why the two of them were in this room. "Sherlock."

"I don't need this, I don't need _you!"_ cried Sherlock, whipping around and kicking viciously at the vanity chair, which promptly skittered to the wall. 

Startled, John took a step back, then stood his ground.

"I am _fine!_ I've dealt with heats all my life and I don't need anyone's help with them!"

Except John could tell that Sherlock was on the ragged edge of his own control. "You're used to spending heats by yourself, okay, but now Moriarty's gotten involved. I can't imagine what he's been putting you through over the last few days."

Sherlock spun around to face him. "Days? _Days?_ Try _weeks!_ ," he said, throwing his hands up in the air. "Try _months!_ "

"That's a very long time to go without relief," answered John quietly. He was no expert in Omega physiology, but every thing he had heard recommended the Omega in question get treated as soon as possible. Good for their overall health, for the future children, et cetera, et cetera. This had always rubbed John the wrong way, though he had never quite figured out why. It was patronizing at best. Didn't really seem all that legitimate. Quack science and superstition.

"Relief," scoffed Sherlock, stalking back to stand in front of John. "There's no such thi-"

Okay, he'd had enough. "Give us a kiss, then."

"I - what?"

"Alright, I'll kiss you."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would you want to do that?"

This was getting much better. "Because you're gorgeous. And I want to."

"Fuck off!" Sherlock shouted.

John couldn't take the smell any longer. He grabbed Sherlock by the upper arms, but didn't throw him back onto the bed as he wanted to do. He was _not_ going to be that kind of Alpha. "Stop, just stop it.

Under his palms, Sherlock fair vibrated with tension. He was still panting, surely on the verge of hyperventilating at this point. John said, "Sherlock. I can make this easier for you. It doesn't have to mean anything, I'm not going to knot you, we're not going to bond. This is just sex. Admittedly sex for a very long time, but sex nonetheless," he shrugged. "We can just have fun."

Sherlock frowned again, yet he seemed to be paying attention. "Fun…I…"

"I know you don't know me, and I don't know you. I will reiterate, however, that I _am_ a doctor. I won't hurt you."

That seemed to get through to him. John felt him relax slightly, losing the rigidity in his posture. Which was good, because he smelled like heaven. John wanted to roll around in a bucket of it, wash his hair in it, launder his sheets with it. "Can I unbutton your trousers?"

"You were in the Army - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Busy with drawing his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, John didn't immediately register the question, and when he finally did, he looked up with quirked lips. "You know you asked me that earlier?" 

"Did I?" 

"Are you feeling alright?" John asked again, a little concerned at the glaze in Sherlock's multicolored eyes. A glaze with did not clear as Sherlock drew closer, dipped down, and lipped the corner of John's mouth.

_Jesus Christ!_

What immediately became clear was that John was clearly mistaken about Sherlock's interest. No Omega, man or woman, did that sort of thing without purpose. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips in an effort not to rip open his trousers, turn him around, and sink into him without so much as a 'by your leave'. Control, Watson, _control_. The man had been in Moriarty's keep for who knew how long. "Fun, yeah?"

Sherlock drew back a little bit to look over John's shoulder. "That's…good."

John could hear the insecurity, though he didn't understand it. Someone who looked like Sherlock should not be wondering if sex could be fun. He went giddy with delight, and then giddy at his own perversity. The thing was, though, that opportunities like this didn't present themselves every day. Maybe not even in a person's lifetime, and the possibilities, _god!_

He pulled Sherlock closer for a full on, proper snog. They stood there and kissed, kissed until they were doing nothing but hanging on to one another, rocking on their feet. John finally tucked his the tips of his fingers underneath Sherlock's belt on his backside. The skin there was beautifully soft and warm and silky, the dimples of his arse a delight for his fingers to slide into. Spreading his fingers wide, he forced them under the belt, as close to holding each of Sherlock's buttocks as much as he could. Sherlock protested with an 'mmph' and took his arms from around John's back.

"Belt, belt," he muttered, undoing his belt with clumsy fingers.

As soon as the belt loosened, John shoved his hands inside Sherlock's pants to grip his arse, palming each one in turn. This made him happy, until he remembered what Moriarty had said. Sherlock was an Omega in heat, he should have been sopping - delicately, John slid one finger in the seam of Sherlock's buttocks until, oh god, _yes_ , there was a plug. It was warm and silky smooth. He moved it just a little bit, listened to Sherlock's sudden gasp and heartfelt curse. "How long has this been in, hmm? I'm surprised you can even walk."

"John," breathed Sherlock.

"Tell me how long. Be precise."

"A few hours, eight or nine at most."

"That's a long time. I know you must have felt it press against your prostate gland, and don't tell me you don't know where it is and what it does, because you're a smart bloke, I know you know these kinds of things," John took the flanged base and wiggled the plug back and forth. Liquid coated his fingers and Sherlock groaned.

"This is ridiculous," John said, releasing the plug and lightly pushing Sherlock towards the bed. "I'm tired of standing."

Sherlock had less to get rid of than John did, yet even so, John was undressed first, because Sherlock stopped what he was doing in order to watch John. In turn, John felt a rush of amused fondness as he jumped onto the bed with a little hop. Oh yes, very nice, very comfortable. Moriarty was an insane bastard, but he had good taste in mattresses. At the hungry look on Sherlock's face, John plumped the pillows, then laid down with one hand behind his head. The other he used to lazily fist his cock. "Come on, then."

Sherlock stepped out of his loosened trousers, peeled his pants off with a grimace. He looked a little unsure of himself - and with a body like that, John had no idea why - hesitantly came to the side of the bed. He really was gorgeous, his proportions even, beautifully muscled. John appreciated that from a medical standpoint as well as a lustful one. He patted the bed, smiled at Sherlock as Sherlock climbed next to him. Rolling onto his side, he took Sherlock by the hip, ran his hand up his side and around his shoulder blade. "Is this alright?"

"I don't know what I'm doing," answered Sherlock.

John shrugged one shoulder. Okay, maybe more reassurance than he had originally thought. Or maybe - maybe Sherlock was a virgin? "Have you done this with anyone before?"

"Are you asking me if I'm a virgin?"

"Ah, no - " Well, yes, _obviously_. He wasn't going to be rude about it, though. "You have to tell me if you're uncomfortable doing anything. Fun, remember?"

Sherlock gave a short, jerky nod, which John took as a yes. The bloke was clearly nervous, so he would go slow, until it was time to go fast. And if he did everything right, fast would come soon enough. So to speak. He looked down - Sherlock was flushed and hard and leaking - "Turn over."

With a nervous glance, Sherlock rolled into his stomach in the space John had just vacated. John immediately looked at the plug. The flange at its base was clear pink. He grasped it firmly and manipulated it in a circle, making Sherlock moan and squirm. 

He pulled it out slightly, shoved it back in.

Sherlock arched his back.

He bent down and bit Sherlock very lightly on his shoulder.

Very faintly, Sherlock said, _"Fuck,"_ into the pillow.

"I'm-going-to-fuck-you-now," said John, not even pausing between words. He slowly pulled the plug all the way out. The entire thing was clear pink, made of a soft jelly. Annie had had a dildo made of the same material - ultimately she'd loved it more than him, which still made him wonder about her. It wasn't even animate, for god's sake - or maybe that was the point. She had been a very odd duck indeed. 

"Up up," he said, and Sherlock obligingly rose up to his knees. John moved between his legs, sat back on his heels to admire Sherlock's backside. His bollocks were like the rest of him; a handful, and hung low. He wasn't particularly hairy, or perhaps he waxed. Either way, John appreciated the body before him. The rim of his anus was red and stretched and shiny from the fluid his body was producing, fluid John just had to taste.

Crouching awkwardly, John didn't bother with any preliminaries and nearly got a broken nose as a result. Sherlock cried out and shoved back, flexing as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to get more or move away. John used the back of his knees as handholds, balancing on them and not incidentally keeping Sherlock in the same position. "Arse up, Sherlock. Shoulders on the bed."

Ah, now, that was better. Letting go of his knees, John stroked Sherlock's prick until the man was incoherent for his moaning. When his neck began to complain, John sat up, rolling his head on his shoulders. 

"Are you going to stop?" 

John grinned. He was sure Sherlock meant to sound imperial, but instead he came across as desperate. "Turn over again."

He was glad to see Sherlock's chest and face blotchy with color, the expression on his face the most relaxed John had seen in the, what, entire hour he had known the man. Staying between Sherlock's spread legs, and keeping his gaze steady on Sherlock's, he licked the very tip of Sherlock's penis where the wet head was peeking through the retracted foreskin. 

Sherlock curled up a bit before falling back down onto the bed. "Oh god, oh god - "

"Good, yeah?"

"John, don't stop!"

So he didn't. He took the whole head in his mouth, massaged the frenulum with his tongue, ran his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs at the same time. He pulled off to tongue Sherlock's bollocks, returned to the head. John slid one hand between lower and drew little circles on Sherlock's perineum, stimulating his prostate without letting him get any closer to orgasm. 

By the time John was done playing, Sherlock was a shaking mess. His hair was plastered to his skull and his eyes were wild. John was pretty sure there was no coherent thought in the man's head beyond his own pleasure. Well, John was in a pretty similar state, if he was going to be honest with himself. Sitting back on his heels, he squeezed the base of his cock hard until he had calmed down a little. Finally, he put the fat head of his prick at Sherlock's entrance and pressed forward. "Okay, here we go."

Sherlock drew his legs up and back, spreading himself wide. His mouth dropped open as John continued in the blood hot passage until he was fully seated. "Oh yeah, yeah," panted John, holding on to Sherlock's thighs and desperately trying not to come yet from the heat, the pressure, the wet suction. He was going to make this good for Sherlock, yes, yes he was if he could just hold on - he had to pump. He _had_ to move his hips, had to make Sherlock come so hard - he looked down and yes, Sherlock wasn't going to hang on for much longer. Sherlock was gripping the sheets so tightly the tendons stood out at his wrists. His cock was red and left droplets of clear seminal fluid on his belly.

John put all his weight on one hand, gripped Sherlock's prick with the other until he had to sit back for the pain in his shoulder. He couldn't coordinate pumping with thrusting, but that was all right. Thrusting shallowly but steadily, he concentrated on Sherlock, and judging by the short gasps and heaving breaths, it wasn't going to be - John rotated his palm over the chamfered head of his prick and Sherlock gave a high pitched cry, jerking against the bed as he came.

Palm flooded with semen, John managed to keep enough presence of mind to give another few quick pulls despite the clamping around his own cock. "Oh jesus," he moaned, trying to keep it together and failing miserably. His own orgasm was not going to be denied now, he could feel it in his pelvis, could feel the clench of his toes. He dropped his hands down next to Sherlock's hips and began to thrust deep, as deep as he could go, and fast. Not great technique, no, but he _needed_ relief, now, from the awful tension within. Pleasure spiraled up inside, reaching his belly his lungs his heart his neck, bringing raging heat to his skin and fresh sweat to his forehead and everything coalesced into one and the world blanked out for a

single 

blessed 

moment.

When he opened his eyes again, John realized he was in bad form; at the point of climax he had simply collapsed on Sherlock, like the worst kind of fifteen year old getting off for the very first time. Embarrassed, he pushed himself up and would have disengaged entirely, except Sherlock was keeping him down with both arms around his back. And…John abruptly realized that he was ready to go again.

Right. 

Okay. 

Because though his nickname was Three Continents Watson for good reason, he had never actually had sex with an Omega in heat. And it had never occurred to him that as an Alpha, he too would respond in the traditional way. Propping his chin on the heel of one hand, he asked, "Alright?"

"Mm."

John gave an experimental thrust, had a full body shiver at the rush of pleasure. Again, and again. Before he knew, he was rocking into Sherlock so hard the headboard was knocking on the wall and oh oh, _yes!_ This time he came back to himself after a few seconds. "Um, okay. That was unexpected."

"Don't apologize," said Sherlock. "Having said that, you're heavier than I anticipated."

"Sorry," John sat up, gently disengaged, hissing through his teeth at the sensitivity of his penis. He looked down at the rush of semen from Sherlock's anus, watched himself twitch at the sight. Already he wanted back in - for fucks sake, if this was what the next few days were going to be like - "I really hope there's food in that fridge."

Sherlock brought his legs back together and stretched. "I wouldn't trust it if I were you."

"Yeah, I suppose," John licked his lips, watched Sherlock stand up and stretch again. The play of muscles in his back was…John could get used to the sight. "So…how long does this usually last for you?"

"A few days, usually. Unfortunately I show no deviation from the norm in this regard," Sherlock said, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door.

John turned and flopped diagonally across the bed. Double flopped, his prick - still hard - slapping wetly across his belly. They were going to have to hydrate, and soon. There was the danger Sherlock had mentioned, but John wasn't convinced they could last without food. Sherlock didn't have an ounce of unnecessary fat on him, and John hardly sat on the couch all day, either. No, they were going to have to risk it. Besides, Moriarty had had his chance plenty of times before, and he was the kind of bloke who enjoyed watching his victims die. John knew enough of the same in Afghanistan, on both sides. He knew the look. 

Without thinking about it, he reached down and began a lovely pull on his cock, manipulating the foreskin a little, thumbing over the slit in the head. Forget about Moriarty and Moran. Although if they were filming this he was going to hunt down every single copy, then hunt them down, too. He would enjoy that part. Maybe he should just do that anyway. After all, it wasn't like he was getting much locum work, and so far no Trust was interested in hiring him, not even for A&E. Right now he'd give anything just to get out of that fucking bedsit. He'd even, no, actually, he wouldn't go so far as to move in with Clara and Harry. That was going a step too far. No, a step too far was thinking about his sister while his hand was on his cock.

John rolled off the bed and headed towards the mini-fridge. There _was_ food, of a sort, inside. Sandwiches from Marks and Sparks, a bagged salad he wouldn't trust if it whispered his name and called him 'baby', a bottle of salad creme, a few cans of Lucozade. Well, the Lucozade was unlikely to be tampered with, after all, who would want to drink it if they had any other choice?

"John, get back in bed."

That voice. John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was lying on the now-bare bed, staring back at him with intent. Oh. Alright then. He did as requested, lying on his side, too. He smiled. "Penny for your thoughts."

"It was good. What you did. Here, in the bed."

At that, John had to grin. "As compliments go, I'll take it. Besides, you're lovely."

Sherlock grimaced. "That's not what people usually say."

"No? So what do they say?"

"Piss off."

John burst into laughter. "Well, you don't seem like a bad bloke to me at all."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough."

"That's ridiculous. You can't know anyone after a few minutes and some sex, your brain is too tiny."

"Oh-ho, too tiny?" John mocked in incredulity. "Does that mean you have a big massive brain in there?"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world."

John stared at him. He was bonkers, and completely serious at the same time. 

"Are we going to have more sex?"

"You seriously just asked me that."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes?"

"Oh my god, you are an idiot. Come here," John answered, cupping his hand on the back of Sherlock's skull and drawing him for a kiss. "We're not leaving this room until we're barely able to walk, right? Right?

"Mm."

"Say 'yes, John'."

With a relaxed little smile, Sherlock said, "Yes, John."

"Excellent. Now get on your knees. And if you want, later on, you can take me," said John. He figured fair was only fair, and he had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock might never have experienced that, either. Omega's weren't supposed to like penetrating others, but John had never thought that was all there was to it. He had been a doctor for far too long, seen unfortunate things. People were capable of trying anything and everything when it came to sex, and Sherlock, regardless of how big his brain was, was no different. Not that he was every going to mention that.

Hours later, or maybe days, when John had completely lost track of time, when he was utterly exhausted yet somehow still up for fucking Sherlock, he found himself on his back, a sweaty consulting detective between his legs, running an ante-ejaculate versus post-ejaculate taste test. John was fairly sure there was going to be no difference, but whatever made Sherlock happy was good enough for him. A hearty suck had him pushing up, and then, before he dared think about it too much, he gripped Sherlock's hair tight to keep his head still, and fucked up into his mouth. He raised his head and looked down to find Sherlock looking up, and that was that, he came without another thought of holding back. "You look so good like that, my come all over your face. If I had the choice I'd see you like that every day."

Funny, he had never reached this stage of honesty with any of his previous lovers, not so soon. It had been six months with Jennie, eleven weeks with Kate, a year with ChaeLin. There had been that little blonde girl in the alley behind that club, once, with her Daddy kink, he would have loved to have gotten to know her better but they'd been disturbed by some arsehole and she had run off before he could even get her name. She'd come three times from his hands alone, while he'd ended up wanking behind the bins. 

Most of all, though, he had regular sex with a variety of women and a couple of men, and with only a few had he gotten to the point where he even mentioned things he thought about, things he wanted to try, without feeling like he was going to scare them off. 

"Alright then."

John huffed a little, too tired to actually laugh. He closed his eyes, ready to drift off. "You'll have to give me your address, then."

"I have a room," said Sherlock, voice muffled as he wiped his face with the washcloth they had deemed suitable for the purpose. He tossed it on the floor, then crawled up the bed to flop down next to John. "At my flat. I have a spare room, though I should warn you I play the violin all hours of the night and sometimes I don't talk for days."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because flat mates should know all about each other."

He turned to look at Sherlock, then. "Is that what we are, flat mates?"

"Yes, of course."

It was utterly mad, but John felt a stab of disappointment. Sherlock's heat was the best sex he'd had in years, possibly the best sex he'd ever had, period, and that was saying something.

"You can't stay in that bedsit, it's doing nothing for your leg. Your psychotherapist is wrong, by the way, your limp is psychosomatic."

"And my shoulder?"

Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff. "That's because you were shot, John."

John shook his head. There were a million reasons not to move in with Sherlock Holmes. There had to be, right? Because it was sheer madness to move in to some Omega's home merely on the basis of the kind of sex they had had. (bloody _fantastic_ sex) All he had to do was think of one, one reason, and he could say no. 

"Just think," Sherlock purred into John's ear. "Just think about what you could do to me every day. I could suck your cock, make you beg to fuck me, make you come just from the sound of my voice, because you like my voice, no, you _love_ it."

"Okay," John said shakily, reaching for Sherlock. "Okay, I'm in."

When he next woke up, John could sense the end was coming. The urge to climb on top of Sherlock was abating, though his desire was not, and the time between sexual acts was growing longer. The shower was running, again, which meant he was going to have to wait his turn. If Sherlock regularly spent that kind of time in the bathroom - oh, who was he kidding. Sherlock was going to be vainer than vain, John would bet anything there was tons of hair product in Sherlock's flat, because no one's hair looked that perfect all the time. 

The bathroom door opened and a cloud of steam perfumed by floral soap drifted out alongside Sherlock, who was toweling under his arms. He looked like some kind OF Greek god, slick trails of water on his chest highlighted by the side table lamp. Yeah, John wanted to lick each droplet off, because good christ was he hungry, and not just for food.

"Not unless you shower first," murmured Sherlock, dipping just low enough across the bed to kiss John's knee. "I'll get the tea started."

"It's awful tea," said John, getting to his feet. "How long have those packets been next to the kettle?" Immediately he held up one hand. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Is there any coffee left?"

Sherlock looked at the packet dubiously. He shook it, listening closely. "These coffee grounds have turned into a solid, which shouldn't be possible given that they're completely sealed. Obviously not, other- "

John tuned him out as he headed to take his turn in the shower. He had learned that Sherlock, for all that he said he didn't speak for days, was one of the chattiest men he had ever met. Sherlock had deduced they were in a hotel complex, no doubt run by Moriarty and his minions. It was a regular hotel, for tourists, mostly, though Moriarty had his own special sections for people to do whatever. The bed had been…shifted…during their explorations of the limits of Sherlock's heat (they hadn't found any limits so far)(and without lube, John was not letting Sherlock anywhere near his arse with that ridged plug, no matter how inoffensive it looked), which was how they found the bloodstain on both carpet and box springs. Not matching bloodstains either, which was definitely worrisome. The cat hair was a curiosity, as were the armadillo scales, but the wasp nest was downright disturbing. Made John shudder just to think about it.

Thankfully, no matter how long Sherlock took, there was always hot water to spare. John wasn't sure how that worked, seeing as there was a timer on the power shower, he was just grateful that it did. He took his time, washing well, because jesus God had they expended a lot of fluids and their skin was…tacky. Thankfully the sheets were none of his concern. He wasn't normally squicky about sex and its consequences, but good lord.

Shower completed, he drank water from the tap using his cupped hands, then leaned on the sink to peer at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual. Given the activities he had been pursuing, that was no surprise. The hickeys on his neck, the bite marks on his upper chest and shoulders, when the hell had they happened? He scratched the beginnings of a beard, grimaced at the itch. Sherlock had one hell of a set of red marks, too, from the burn. John wasn't about to apologize for that. He scratched again, stopped abruptly, listened hard, turning his good ear towards the closed door. There were voices -

Flinging the door open so hard it almost caught him in the face on the rebound, John saw two things almost at the same time: Sherlock, on the bed and naked, legs spread as he calmly stroked his cock, eyes flicking to John before returning to Lestrade, who stood just inside the open doorway, ogling Sherlock with calculation.

 _Fuck_ no, that wasn't happening. John was out of the bathroom in a flash, aware of cool air hitting his bare arse as he stormed across the room. He had Lestrade pushed up against the wall, forearm braced on his neck, other hand shoving the door closed. He growled, "What the fuck do you want."

"Jesus, John, I was told to come collect you."

"By who?" asked John, shifting his weight to get the best leverage in case Lestrade made a move.

"By _whom_ ," Sherlock said loudly.

"Oi, you can shut it!" John called back over his shoulder. He looked back at Lestrade. "Who? Moriarty?"

"Moran, actually. Said I should check every room until I found a tall bloke with a short, annoying git and well, here I am."

John checked Lestrade over carefully. His pulse was fast, and he was a bit sweaty, his nostrils flaring with almost every inhalation. Why - oh, of course. He was an Alpha in a room that reeked of an Omega in heat. That stank of sex. Yet he was holding himself together most admirably. John backed off, slowly releasing the pressure on Lestrade's throat. "Watch yourself."

"Sure," said Lestrade, rubbing his throat and watching John carefully. "I wouldn't step on your toes, John. You'd kick my arse from here to Kingdom come if I touched him, I know that."

"Better believe it."

"Despite what the culture at large believes," interrupted Sherlock. "I am not actually a piece of property to be haggled over like fish in a market."

"Course not, mate -" Lestrade glanced at John warily. A second later his eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Everyone knows that."

What? John frowned, then realized exactly what the problem was, and it wasn't that he was nude. No, Lestrade had most definitely not ever seen him sporting an erection that hadn't quit in…however long they had been there. "What else did he say?"

"Just the usual. He's going to fucking kill you one of these days, and then he's going to turn me over to his goons and show me how a Real Alpha behaves," Lestrade punctuated his statement with visible air quotes. "Because I'm not Alpha enough, running around with you. Oh, and by the way, he's going to fucking fuck the fucking life out of you, too. Just in case that wasn't clear before."

"Good to know he hasn't changed," muttered John, searching in the spill of sheets and blankets and duvet for his shirt and pants. "Did he say how long you had to find us?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I got the impression that sooner would be better. I keep telling you, John, that Moran's far more interested in Moriarty than either one of us."

"He's in love," drawled Sherlock, still gazing at Lestrade. "He's in love with Moriarty, who has no love for Alphas or Omegas apart from what he can use them for."

Open-mouthed, John stared at Sherlock. "Moriarty's a Beta?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You didn't see because you've always been too concerned with Moran. Like you, Moran's an Alpha among Alphas. The difference is that you don't care to show it off, while he has to be cock of the walk. And he's in love with a Beta who simply doesn't care. He'll do anything for Moriarty, including letting us go, because Moriarty's bored with us now. We've given him his entertainments, so I suggest we hurry up and go somewhere else."

"I'll call you a taxi, then," said Lestrade, pulling a phone from his pocket.

"Not in here!" barked Sherlock, jack-knifing off the bed, practically leaping across the room to grab the phone out of Lestrade's hands. "We'll all leave together, I know a place we can go."

"Your flat?" asked John, easing his pants over his erection. Christ, this was going to be a miserable leave taking.

"Yes," said Sherlock, drawing up his trousers.

"What the hell are you going to wear? You can't go traipsing about in trousers."

"Of course not, I've got a sheet."

Watching Sherlock snag a sheet off of the floor, John could only shake his head. Hardly inconspicuous, but one could say the same about a half-naked man in the middle of October. "Fine. Greg, you know the way out?"

Lestrade visibly shook himself, blinking at John as if he had never seen him before. "Uh, yeah. Easy peasy. Saw a few people leaving on my way in, lots of people in the rooms that were unlocked. Should take five minutes if we rush it."

John finished tying his boots and stood up to put on his shirt. "Alright. You take point, Sherlock follows, I'll bring up the rear. At the first sign of trouble you get Sherlock out, I'll handle whoever might want us."

"You sure about that?" Lestrade looked skeptical. "You've lost weight, and I'm, uh, sure you've not gotten a lot of rest."

"Let me worry about that. Now, are we ready?" At their answering nods, John said. "Let's go."

Once outside their room, they went the opposite direction they had come in. Seemed obvious, the logical choice, but John was never convinced that logic had anything to do with either Moran or Moriarty's decisions. Everything seemed to go along on whimsy and mercurial emotions, instead of a grand criminal plan. Yet look at Tariq Zadran. A most unassuming fellow, who just happened to control part of the drug corridor in the Afghan mountains. Drink tea with the man, talk about ghazals or poetry and he was the most erudite scholar in the world. Nothing he did was without calculation, maybe Moriarty did the same, just on a slightly different trajectory.

Lestrade was proven right. The halls were mostly empty, though they did pass a few giggling, drunken couples. One pair was on the floor, the girl in the boy's lap, grinding away fully clothed as they kissed. Reminded John of what he had been doing only a little while earlier, and he felt some sympathy for them. Not much, but he vaguely remembered being that young and impatient. 

Eventually they entered the foyer of the hotel, where two night clerks stared at them until John was jumping out of his skin. In the cool night air outside, Sherlock held up one arm and a taxi screeched to a halt in front of him.

John snorted. Because of course Sherlock would have that kind of super power.

Sherlock leaned out of the door, said, "What are you waiting for?"

Lestrade turned questioning eyes to John, who gestured towards the taxi. He followed Lestrade inside and they sped off before he had a chance to do up his seat belt. "So where are we headed?"

"To my flat."

"Shouldn't we be in hiding, or something?" asked Lestrade, casting a nervous glance out the window. "What if Moriarty finds us there? And should I be as worried as I am?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He knows where I live, and that you're both with me. He also knows it would not be wise of him to disturb me there."

"So how did he get a hold of you in the first place?" John asked, wishing he had worn a warmer coat those days ago. He pressed the heater button in hope that it would function - the vent gave a wheezy gust, rattled, and died. 

"I…made an error of judgement," Sherlock said, tight-lipped. 

John was familiar enough with that, and didn't press the issue. He took to staring out the window, too, aware of the silence in the taxi, the sports radio the driver had on, a replay of some five-a-side charity match. They wove deeper into London, eventually stopping on Baker Street, just off the Marylebone Road. Lestrade paid the driver, and while John contemplated a much needed sandwich at the cafe in front of him, Sherlock rang the doorbell of 221 just to the side.

The door opened and a flurry of female engulfed Sherlock. "Where have you been? I was so worried, and even your brother has come to take tea every week. Sherlock, you _know_ how I feel about him. Now come in, come in and I'll bring you a pot of tea, although I'm not your housekeeper. Where's your shirt gone, you'll catch your death in this weather! And your poor feet! Oh hello, are these your friends? Go on, introduce us."

John couldn't help but smile. The speaker, a woman in her 50s, was clearly fond of Sherlock, which made him like her immediately. However, he agreed with her assessment of Sherlock. "She's right, y'know, let's get you inside."

"See, he knows what he's talking about. Would you like some tea? I've got Garibaldi's, if you'd like one."

Bemused, John said, "That would be lovely. My name's John Watson, and this is Greg Lestrade."

"Welcome, welcome. I'm Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, here's your key, dear. Your brother had new ones made. Now you go upstairs and I'll see to that tea."

Sherlock bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

When John recovered from that image, he followed Sherlock up the stairs, Lestrade pounding after him. John hadn't expected anything in particular, but he was pleased by the ambiance of the flat, even though it was messy. It was comfortable, and masculine, and showed an interesting mind at work. Sherlock swanned into the kitchen and then through a door at the back, leaving John and Lestrade to stand there. 

Well, if Sherlock wasn't going to play host, John didn't feel it necessary to behave like a good guest. Besides, he was hungry. With food in mind, he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. He blinked, closed the door. After a long moment wondering if what he had seen was really in there, or just a figment of his imagination, he opened the door again. Yes, yes, there really was a human foot in a clear plastic container. And a condiment jar of painted fingernails? Along with jars of fancy mustard, raspberry jam and fine shred marmalade, a half used brick of French butter and an unlabeled jar of what looked like crystallized honey. Apart from that the fridge was empty.

He hardly dared check the cupboards, after that. Instead, he took after Lestrade, wandering about the room and perusing the books and papers. There were classic, leather bound adventure novels, modern textbooks on chemistry, a well-thumbed London A to Z, programmes for the National Theatre, half a train ticket to St. Petersburg. There were personal letters on the desk, most of which were handwritten. The top one was written in marker, with heavy underlines. John couldn't resist.

_Dearest Mr. Holmes -_

_We cannot express our gratitude enough, nor our dismay at_  
_the trouble Samantha caused you, personally. She was a_  
_wonderful child, and with therapy we hope she will be a_  
_wonderful young woman._

_Please, if there is anything we can help you with, don't  
Hesitate to ask. _

_Yours, Penny and David Grant._

A very kind letter, a very generous letter, a letter that had John wondering exactly what kind of miracles Sherlock performed. He had said he was a consulting detective, so maybe a private eye? 

"The Grants," announced Sherlock, returning to the kitchen dressed in gray pajama bottoms, a dingy white tee shirt stretched out at the neck, and a flowing maroon dressing gown. He was still barefoot. He opened a cabinet, removed a packet of McVitties plain digestives and tore them open. Cramming one into his mouth, he began speaking around it. "Daughter was a heroin addict who got mixed up in a gang. The usual petty crimes ensued, until the leader was murdered over an Apple Brown Betty."

"What, seriously?" said Lestrade, sliding a book back onto its place on the shelf. "Killed over a cake?"

"Shabnan is a very good pastry chef," Sherlock stuffed another digestive into his mouth. He chewed, looked at the package and said "Why plain, plain makes no sense," he reopened the cabinet and shuffled through the items within before closing the cabinet in disgust. "Mrs. Hudson!"

The bellow took John by surprise - but then Mrs. Hudson appeared on the landing, carrying a full tea tray. She looked a little shaky, and Lestrade immediately took the tray from her. "Thank you, dear. Greg, is it?"

"Yeah, yes."

"I'll just go downstairs and get the biscuits."

There were cups and saucers for four, and John would have helped himself if Sherlock hadn't moved him out of the way with a 'tsk'. So Sherlock poured for all of them, added milk and sugar as he saw fit. Interestingly, John received a single spoonful of sugar and a squeeze of lemon in what proved to be perfectly mashed tea. After the first sip he said, "I haven't had tea like this since I was last at my Nan's."

"No one makes tea like Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock took his cup and saucer to the desk, began leafing through the papers on the top. "Korean or Indian?"

"I've never had Korean," said Lestrade. He had taken a seat on the sofa, still glancing about the room, occasionally frowning in bewilderment. "I could go for Korean if it's not too spicy."

"As long as it's hot I don't much care," replied John, relieving Mrs. Hudson of her small tray of biscuits. She'd put the works on, even had Jaffa Cakes, which no one over the age of fifteen should be allowed to eat, in his opinion. Of course, his judgment _was_ colored by the Great Cider Incident of Guy Fawkes Day when he was fifteen. He couldn't stand the texture of the jelly in the Jaffa Cake, now. He shuddered and turned the tray so the small array of them didn't face him.

"Is this cup for me?" Mrs. Hudson said with obvious delight. "Thank you very much, Sherlock. You can be so lovely when you want to."

"Why be polite to idiots? I've never seen the point," Sherlock replied, looking for something on a black mobile phone.

"Oh," said Mrs. Hudson, shaking her head and taking a seat next to Lestrade. She leaned close to him. "He can be insufferable sometimes, can't he?"

John turned the red easy chair towards the sofa and sat down. As soon as he did, he realized several things; he was tired, he was very hungry, this was going to be his flat, too, if he agreed to Sherlock's suggestion. "Has he lived here long, Mrs. Hudson?"

"For some time, yes. But he's ever so good to me - oh, are you going to be his new flatmate? He's had several, none of them have stuck."

"Um - "

Lestrade stared at him incredulously. "Really? You've known each other all of what, ten minutes?"

"The most important ten minutes of his life," Sherlock announced, standing at by the window with tea in hand. He looked down at the street, raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Hudson, we're not in."

Confused, John glanced at Lestrade, who clearly didn't understand what was going on, either.

Mrs. Hudson, however, immediately popped to her feet. "I'll just see you boys later, ta-ra!"

Frowning, John followed her to the hallway. "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Oh no, dear. Now you just close these doors, and everything will be fine. I'm going to visit my sister, so I won't be back for a few days, give you boys a chance to um, to settle in. Good night!"

"Good night," echoed John, still unclear as to what the hell was going on. "Sherlock - " he began, closing the door and turning to speak to the man. The image in front of him was a close match to the one from a scant two hours before, except Lestrade wasn't ogling Sherlock, he had him bent back against the desk, keeping Sherlock's arms tightly crossed behind his back, kissing him hard. 

John was not the kind of man who allowed his Alpha tendencies to get the better of him. He liked being in control, scoffed at people like Moran, who reveled in the fear they produced in others from their mere presence in a room. He didn't like Omegas thinking they were in danger of being collected into a harem, or randomly bred by some stranger in the street just because said stranger happened to catch their scent. In any other situation, that would be called rape. Nonetheless, seeing the Omega he had been sleeping with for the past few days kissed by another Alpha, albeit one he knew, enraged John to such an extent that he didn't hesitate to pull Lestrade off of Sherlock and throw him to the floor. He pointed one shaking finger at Lestrade. "Stay down!"

To his credit, Lestrade did, wiping a little blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand. John turned to Sherlock, making sure Lestrade remained within eyesight. "You alright?"

Sherlock, far from being distraught, was bright eyed and chipper. He loomed over John, said, "Yes, John," in a tone that made it all too clear that he was more than interested in what Lestrade had been doing.

 _Oh_. Well, it wasn't like they had a bond. Only a few very pleasant hours. John had no hold upon Sherlock. Not that he wanted one. Of course not, that would be ridiculous, insane. Nuts.

Lestrade, though? They were business partners, of a sort. Watched one another's backs. The important thing to remember was that Sherlock was new to this (and how crazy was _that_ ), he deserved to do as much experimenting as possible, if for whatever reason he hadn't done so before. God, John was an arsehole. He should go, leave them to it. "Sorry, Greg…"

"You're alright," Lestrade answered, eying John cautiously.

"Listen," John said to Sherlock. "I'm going to head home - "

"Good, you should get your things and return here at once. Mrs. Hudson won't disturb us, we have all night to do what we want."

John tried not to notice the lushness of Sherlock's lower lip, failed miserably, ended up licking his own lips and watching Sherlock watch him in turn. "Sorry?"

"John," Sherlock murmured, moving closer still, enclosing John's ribs in his huge hands. "I've see the way Lestrade looks at you. You haven't noticed, because you're an oblivious idiot - oh don't make that face at me, almost everyone is - and I wanted to find out what would happen if he touched me instead."

"What would happen?" John repeated dumbly.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "I thought maybe you would want to watch him fuck me, and then you could go after, show me what a bad little Omega I've been, wanting so much cock."

John felt a little faint. He'd had girlfriends who had wanted him to talk dirty, but he'd always felt like such a fraud. No one had ever done the reverse to him, however. He liked it. A lot. In fact, he liked it so much he could already feel how tight his pants had gotten. Was Sherlock - ? Trailing his hand from Sherlock's hip to between his legs, oh yes, oh my, oh yes _please_. First, he had to correct his mistake with Lestrade. "Greg - "

"Can I get up now? Or are you still planning on kicking my arse?"

John extended his hand, helped Lestrade back to his feet. He peered at Lestrade's mouth. "Sorry, don't know how I managed to do that."

Lestrade touched the tip of his tongue to the inside of his lip, shook his head a moment later. "Cut my lip on my tooth, nothing serious. But the next time you do that I'm going to fucking arrest you for assaulting a police officer."

Chastened, John nodded. After a moment he said, "Sherlock has a proposition for us."

"I'm not sure I want to listen to any more of Sherlock's _propositions_."

"Ah, Lestrade - "

"John's a friend, he's a _mate_ , mate. I'm not going to fuck it up over some Omega's mindgames."

"You get enough of that at home from your wife," Sherlock snapped back.

"Oi!"

"Enough!" John held up one hand. "Now, if this is going to work, there have to be ground rules. Sherlock, is this a one time thing?"

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down. Giving Lestrade a sidelong look, he whispered, "I thought you said sex was supposed to be fun? That we could just have fun?"

John had to smile, because he had grown quite fond of Sherlock over the past few days. And he genuinely wanted Sherlock to have a good time. Who safer to explore with than himself, and Lestrade? He didn't think Lestrade had any particularly weird kinks, at least he had never mentioned them when they talked about sex, as blokes did when they were drunk. He said, "Yeah, of course."

Lestrade was still watching them, though he was mostly watching Sherlock at this point. John suspected he was completely unaware that he was occasionally rubbing the front of his trousers. "Greg."

Lestrade's attention snapped back to John. He straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah?"

"Get over here."

Cautiously, Lestrade took the couple of steps necessary, until he was within arms reach. John refused to feel guilty for knocking him to the floor. He took Lestrade by the uppper arm and pulled him closer, grabbed him by the neck and kissed him thoroughly. Surprisingly, Lestrade, instead of pushing John away, pulled him in even more tightly, until there was barely breathing room between the two of them.

Finally John broke away. His heart was racing and jesus _fuck_ , who knew Lestrade was that good a kisser? For his part, Lestrade was looking back at John as if the same thought was just now occurring to him as well. Okay, this was going to be a lot better than he had initially felt. He looked at Sherlock. "Where's your bedroom?"

"You see, and still don't observe," commented Sherlock, staring at John wide-eyed. He took John's hand. "Come on, I'll show you."

**Author's Note:**

> There's a story where John goes to a club and has 'an intimate encounter' with a woman in the alley. Sherlock interrupts, (more) porn ensues. I referred to that story in this one, but I have no idea who the author or what the title was! If you know, please mention in comments so I can properly tip my hat to that author...cheers!


End file.
